


Dog Lord

by pettiot



Series: Dragon Age II Kinkmeme [8]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Bestiality, Unrequited Sexual Tension, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:29:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22677190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Hawke and Aveline are set upon by disgruntled Fereldans intent on humiliating Hawke.  Mabari are involved.
Relationships: Aveline/f!Hawke
Series: Dragon Age II Kinkmeme [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619464





	Dog Lord

  


‘Dog lord.’ 

A slur, even coming from a Fereldan. Much less a Fereldan wielding a blade against the best of their own.

‘Hawke,’ Aveline shouted, but there were two mabari holding her in the alley’s corner, and Aveline respected mabari. She was Fereldan even if estranged, and she did not like killing the dogs, who were not to blame for the whim of their masters. 

She reached for her sword regardless, because it was Hawke.

One muzzle raised to the dark strip of sky between buildings, calling to a primal fear. The hair on Aveline’s nape rose, sick fear filling her belly. 

The moment to draw was lost. 

Powerful jaws closed like a trap, around ankle and wrist, the mabari trained in unison. They were so fast, had worked together to separate her from Hawke’s side. Teeth penetrated and held, bones creaking. Aveline screamed through clenched teeth. Hot and wet, flooding mouth and belly. The pain folded her in two, and the mabari crushed her against the wall with their great solid bodies.

But they were Fereldans! Tattered refugees emerging from the shadows after their powerful dogs had done the dirty work, their gear the cobbled remnants from the Ostagar battlefield. Looters, Aveline tried to justify, filthy, feral looters. Refugees, some part of her knew, provoked too far by betrayal after betrayal. But by Hawke? To attack Hawke? For what slight this time? One of their own!

And there was Hawke, Aveline saw with relief, dragged at last into the alley, blood on her face and hair torn loose by the hand hauling her across the cobbles, the red satin finery ripped to bare one small breast with its dark plush nipple seeking the sky, a blind eye.

‘Dog lord,’ said a Fereldan. He had a scar on his face, darkspawn no doubt, but seared black by the myth that burning a darkspawn wound would kill the chance of taint. A lie that rumour, Anders corrected her, with a sincerity Aveline trusted. The dragon witch had spoken truly, and nothing could have saved Wesley from Hawke's unrelenting hand. 

There was a steadiness to the Fereldan’s voice which suggested he would have held the needless scourge himself. 

Ringleader, Aveline recognised. Alpha dog. The others of his pack settled into position, ready and armed and fleabitten and starving. Her weapons and Hawke’s weapons were taken with businesslike hands, which were not cruel whatever their intent. Aveline was bound with her own shackles. Hawke was pinned to the dusty half paved ground.

‘Tell me,’ said the alpha. ‘Tell me, Hawke. Dog lord, without a dog. How many empty rooms are there in your lovely mansion that could have housed our fellows?’

Hawke did not struggle, but with a mabari’s teeth white against her throat and the growl low and heavy in the air, Aveline would not have, either. 

Deftly, the alpha pulled away Hawke’s jewelry. Two rings, a necklace, the finely woven belt and shoes. Almost no prize at all.

'Enough,' Aveline called.

'Captain,' said the Fereldan, with mild respect, 'we have not even begun.'

Hawke was bucking. ‘If you wanted money, you could just ask.’ 

‘I don’t want money.’ The alpha hawked to one side, a simple clearing of throat. ‘Money has no meaning to you, not any more. You came here and trampled over us, ignored us, walked through us, on your rise to influence. You were Fereldan. Have you forgotten what happened to us at Ostagar?’

Then there was a pause. The alpha sighed through his nose.

‘That’s right, Hawke. You fled Ostagar even before the signal was lit. Your family, wasn’t it? What care you showed them above your vows to serve your country, dragging them away from the darkspawn tide. How well that worked out for you. Did you sell them out too, in your rise to power?’

Hawke spat in his face. He just looked at her, steadily.

The mabari at his side licked the spittle from his cheek with a single broad swipe of its tongue, before it returned to the circling dog guard.

‘You’ve forgotten where you came from, Hawke.’

‘Do you intend to kill me? With the captain of the guard watching? Or will you kill her too?’

‘No. No killing.’

‘Then you let me go now, _Fereldan_ , and I won’t kill you later.’

‘You’ll kill me regardless. We all know where you’re aiming. You might even get there, you’re cutthroat enough for politics. But you’ll remember where you came from when you take the viscount’s seat, _bitch_.’

‘Hawke!’ Aveline bucked with fury and fear.

A blade rested easily along her throat, and sweat beaded down her spine.

Hawke’s shirt was taken away, the bandeau wrestled lower, half-ripped when the men failed with the clasps. Her trousers they peeled away, down to her boots, then cut the crotch to spread her legs. Four men, one to each limb, another kneeling by her head and holding it tilted up, looking down along the moonlit curves of her body, at the rising dark furred mound.

The alpha stood between Hawke’s legs, looking down at her, still with his odd dispassion.

‘Dog,’ he said.

A mabari’s ears twitched. The same one who had licked his cheek with love. It stepped out of guard and went to his side, obedient.

Aveline felt her breath stop in her throat.

‘Take.'

The mabari’s muzzle lowered and nosed forward, unrelenting.

‘No!’ Hawke or Aveline, in unison. Aveline squeezed her eyes closed, in horror, but the same horror had her open them again immediately.

But the teeth, white and shining, did not close on the vulnerable belly.

Hawke stared along her own exposed body, nipples pinched and pebbled with the cold and her fear, unable to look away for the hands which held her head.

The mabari’s docked tail wagged. His posture shifted, almost puppy-like despite his powerful mass. His nose pushed hard against Hawke’s crotch and lifted, as if trying to get under her. All four men almost could not hold her against the ground.

The mabari whined and pawed her briskly. 

Aveline hissed as Hawke bit back the scream. Red ribbons, four, eight, twelve distinct stripes, peppered with blood and rising, belly and thigh.

‘Open up for him, dog lord,’ said the alpha.

Hawke’s ribs were heaving with her breath. Unwilling. Begrudging. The men at her legs forced her knees to bend, and held her open.

The mabari’s tail wagged again, eyes returning to his master.

‘Take.’

The mabari lowered its muzzle.

Hawke’s struggle and shouting began in earnest, head twisting from side to side against the hold.

Aveline could not look away. 

But the mabari made no move to mount. His interest seemed more innocent than his master’s. The muzzle returned again and again to the source of such interesting tastes, the broad large tongue licking and licking. The mabari’s nose was shiny in the dark, as wet and shiny as the hair between Hawke’s legs.

Aveline’s own mouth was very dry, which she did not realise until she needed to swallow. That very action pulled her back into her body, against the shock and horror, to the pain in her bitten limbs, the vicious metal around her wrists.

The mabari was superbly muscled, rippling underneath his fine coat. He was in better condition than his masters: Fereldans loved their dogs. Oh, Fereldans loved their dogs, and for all Aveline thought of herself as Fereldan, years of her father’s Orlesian joking, hard meant or otherwise, rose sharp and sudden in Aveline’s mind, a lurking awareness painfully paramount. 

The mabari’s nose would be cold, its tongue so hot, just slightly rough. 

He had such a fine, dark nose, glistening in the moonlight. Such clean looking eyes, sharply intelligent. His ears were expressive and interested. The shape of his skull was refined. His breeding was clear. Animal nobility.

Mabari did not drool in excess without stimulus. Aveline thought, there was surely too much wet on Hawke’s thighs and cunt for it to be all from the mabari’s tongue. Her black curls, so thick, were parted with each swipe of tongue, flush flesh showing clearly swollen. Hawke’s attempts to free herself involved lifting her hips, twisting. Into the mabari’s tongue, or away? Such a long, clean tongue. No human or elf or dwarven male could do so much. The dog was joyful in its licking, suggested unending, singleminded devotion. Any twist and buck and cry propelled Hawke directly into that generous mouth. 

_Generous_.

Adrenaline had always struck Aveline this way, the fever pitch of the fight warming her belly, the wetness in her crotch just life, fluid, affirmation of survival. She clenched her thighs tight against the pulse. Guilt and shock simply powered the pulse all the more. Hawke was drowning, and all Aveline could do was watch. This was a disaster. 

_Oh, Hawke—_

The mabari’s cock was unsheathing, red and dripping. His nosing was urgent, devoted, he was trying to flip Hawke again. More pawing, too quick and demanding for his master to call it back. Hawke cried out. Her raked belly, her thighs, shivering. The dog— the dog’s back arched, a shape Aveline recognised. He wanted to mount.

Hawke’s eyes were fixed above, to the grey and unresponsive sky, face shining and wet and her mouth open long and soundlessly, _no_.

Then the alpha stepped forward, and pulled his mabari back with a word.

The five men stepped back and left Hawke unbound. But she only lay there, shuddering. The trembling of her belly had such a familiar pulse. Wetness beaded tentatively along her crease, fell, and gathered again, slow and glistening.

But the dog, the dog—

Stuttering and belated, Aveline called, ‘Enough. _It's enough_!’

The alpha with his ugly scar smiled at her, at nothing. The chink of Aveline’s keys hitting Hawke’s heaving belly was loud. Hawke almost screamed.

‘Remember, Hawke, this was where you came.’

Hawke’s eyes closed and her face crumpled, an expression of horror, anger, rage. The mabari panted, a broad grin. He sniffed the small pile of Hawke’s clothes, tail wagging a gentle familiarity. The tick tick tick of nails on paving receded into Kirkwall's boundless dark spaces.

In the absence of further aggression, Hawke stumbled to her knees, moving stiffly, and lifted the keys to Aveline’s cuffed hands. She licked cracked lips.

‘Nothing happened,’ Hawke said, roughly. Her clothes were ripped, her wrists and ankles bruised. The shining wetness between her legs caught the moonlight again and again as she dressed. She had no trousers. Nothing. Just wet, shining, on those pale thighs and slicked dark curls. Even standing, the pink dip of her sex was clear. 

Aveline’s nose twitched. She could smell — just briefly, on the stagnant breeze, a hint of brine and lust, a smell of happy sex.

‘Do you understand? _Nothing happened_.’

‘I understand,’ said Aveline.

Because Hawke was so good at forgetting, with her indifference of steel, which did not cater for any emotion and least of all desperation. But Aveline would remember for her, and would hope it through no choice of her own.

  



End file.
